


Hello Mr. Manager

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>someone requested harry riding nick wearing only his Grimshaw football manager jacket as shown in this post: </p>
<p>http://ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com/post/69586523532</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello Mr. Manager

**Author's Note:**

> very fake, super fake!
> 
> my tumblie: ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com

"What’s this then?" Harry says, completely naked, rifling through Nick’s closet. 

"Can you get your stupid arse to bed, please?" Nick says, sitting up, a condom packet half-opened in one hand. 

"Heeyyyy!" Harry says happily.

He turns around, and he’s wearing the jacket from the match. It’s massive on him, and he’s grinning from ear to ear. 

"This is amazing," he says, striking a pose. His cock bounces in front of him, absolutely shameless, and Nick chokes on his own saliva, has to put his hands in front of his face. 

"Harry," he whines. "Take that off."

"It’s so nice," Harry says, musingly. Nick peeks through his fingers. Harry’s fingering the fabric, still smiling. "Cozy. Did you get cold?" 

"What is this, an interview?" Nick laughs. "Can you come to bed?" 

"Alright, alright," Harry grumbles, and Nick twists around to grab the slick off the nightstand. 

When he turns back Harry’s  _right there_ , crawling towards him on the bed, and he’s still got the stupid jacket on. 

"Harry." 

Harry has a determined glint in his eyes, and before Nick can say anything Harry’s kissing him, hard and hot. 

The bottle of lube drops onto the bed, forgotten. Nick arches into the touch. 

"What are we doing?" he asks a minute later, Harry pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to his neck. Nick has a hand fisted in the stupid jacket. 

"We’re fucking, Nick, get with the program," Harry mumbles into his shoulder. 

"We’re not fucking with you in that ridiculous jacket-" 

"What if you were my manager?" Harry says, sitting up, a little gleam in his eyes. He grabs the lube with one hand, and - easy as anything- slicks up two of his fingers and reaches between his own legs. 

When they enter he lets out the softest little gasp. 

Nick’s mouth is hanging open, he’s aware, but he can’t be bothered to care. 

"Nick," Harry says, sternly, rocking down a little bit onto his own fingers, his face dewy and mouth looking red and wet and full. "Nick. What would you do?" 

"Your manager," Nick stammers out. "What?" 

"Like, I’m a footballer," Harry starts, and Nick snorts, licking his lips as he watches Harry’s fingers twist inside himself. 

"Can’t buy that-" 

"Shut up," Harry says, laughing a little himself, and then his back arches, he makes a frustrated face. 

"Need a hand, love?" Nick says softly, rubbing his palm up and down the soft curve of Harry’s hip. 

"Please," Harry mumbles, and Nick grins, takes over. 

When he has two fingers slipping easily in and out of Harry’s tight, hot arse, and Harry is gasping above him, knees tight to either side of Nick, he says- “Now, what was this about a footballer?” 

Harry groans, and the zip of the jacket drags- cold and light- against Nick’s stomach. Nick shudders, tugs Harry closer in his lap and sinks his fingers deeper. 

"If you were my manager," he says, unsteady. "And I- I was playing, uh. I wasn’t playing well enough for you. And you had to, to- to give me a- _ahh_ , fuck.” 

He bears down on Nick’s fingers, very obviously trying to get them up against his prostate. His cock is so hard it looks painful. Though Nick’s in a similar situation, so his sympathy is limited. 

"Give you a what, darling?" Nick murmurs, as Harry grinds and sweats and gasps. Jesus, he’ll come before Nick gets his cock inside him, at this rate. And he’s still wearing the bloody  _jacket_. 

"Like in the dressing room, at half time," Harry says a minute later. His eyes are closed blissfully. He swallows noisily, licks his lips before he goes on. "What would you do?" 

"Probably just give you a Gatorade, tell you to buck up," Nick says, grinning. He has three fingers in Harry now. "Nothing too serious-" 

"Fuck  _off_ ,” Harry groans. “You’d have to- to bend me over a bench. Take me. Uh, bare. Teach me a lesson.” 

"Seems counterproductive." Nick bites his lip to keep from laughing, his whole body tingling and hot and happy. God, Harry’s lovely. "Wouldn’t be able to walk too well. Probably lose me the match-" 

"You’re the worst," Harry informs him, even as he fumbles under him, catches hold of Nick’s cock and gives it a long stroke from root to tip, so good that Nick whimpers before he can catch himself. "I should leave. I should really just leave-" 

"Empty threats, popstar," Nick breathes out, and then it trails off into something embarrassing when Harry sinks down onto his cock, bare and hot. Nick’s felt it on his fingers but it’s different- so different, when Nick’s cock is pressed up inside him. Harry is soft and tight, clutching him, and Nick’s whole world narrows to that. Nothing else matters. 

"You’d fuck me," Harry says breathlessly, sounding satisfied. He rises, slides back down, and Nick groans. 

"Wouldn’t," he manages to say. "Impractical." 

"But I’d need it," Harry murmurs, fucking Nick slowly now, his hands on Nick’s chest, spread wide.against the skin. "I’d be so apologetic. I’d offer to suck your cock, and that- that wouldn’t be enough. You’d have to - to, oh,  _fuck_ , Nick-” he shudders, and the resulting twitch of his insides around Nick is bloody brilliant. “You’d have to fuck me.” 

"Well if you insist," Nick gasps out, sounding like he’s been running a marathon, and finally Harry shuts his bloody mouth, fucks him properly. The stupid jacket is swishing and flapping about his body, and Nick would laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with being balls-deep and bare inside Harry fucking Styles. 

"You feel so-" Harry breathes, one hand curled around his cock, which is slick and leaking. "You feel so- your cock-" 

Nick won’t deny he feels a warm, smug flush of satisfaction at that. “What, darling?” he says, rough, feeling himself start to get close. 

"So fucking  _good_ ,” Harry hisses, throwing himself horizontal onto Nick’s cock, rocking back frantically like an animal in heat. “God. Fuck, fuck, fuck-“ 

His hand is working quickly and tightly between his legs, cock sliding in and out of his fist, and he gasps out, “Oh-  _Nick_ -” just before he comes all over himself. 

It’s quite soppy, the whole name-calling-as-he-finishes thing, and Nick’s completely going to tell him so, except- 

"Harry," he moans, as the air’s punched out of him with his orgasm. "Oh- oh, Harry, yes-" 

Well. That’s embarrassing. 

It takes him a minute to come down. Harry’s curled into his chest, very soft and pliant now that he’s nutted off all over their stomachs and Nick’s jacket. 

Nick breathes out hard, presses an exhausted kiss to the side of Harry’s head, breathing in the scent of his silky-wet curls, salty sweat and expensive hair product. 

Harry wriggles a bit on top of him, then reaches back and pulls Nick out, sits up, shivering a little. 

"Alright?" Nick asks.

"Yeah," Harry breathes, but his finger is still down-  _there_ , barely visible but definitely doing something. “Just- mm. Your come. I’m all- wet.” 

"Pervert," Nick says, fondly, and he tugs Harry forward onto his chest, reaches his own hand down. His fingers are longer than Harry, and Harry lets out a weak whimper when Nick’s fingers hook on the rim of his arse, then push in, slick and easy. 

"Oh, yes," Nick says, steadily. "You’re quite messy, my darling." 

"Nick," Harry mumbles out, digging his face into Nick’s chest. "Fuck. Nick." 

He’s so lovely inside, is the thing. Nick can’t be blamed. Harry is slippery and hot and wet and still so tight even when he’s just been fucked. Nick kisses Harry’s hair, gently, as he moves his fingers, and Harry just lies there, shuddering every once in a while, his breath soft and panting. 

After a few minutes Harry hardens up against his thigh- starts to rock down into it, mouth open, and Nick laughs. 

"Your turnaround time is admirable, Styles, it really is." 

"Get me off then," Harry says, cheeky, and Nick does. 

He brings off Harry slow and easy- tucks Harry against his side with a finger still rubbing at the fucked-out, wet rim of his arse and his other hand sliding slow up and down Harry’s cock. Harry lies there and watches him, his eyes wide and trusting, soft pink mouth half-open. Occasionally he’ll lift his head for a kiss. When he comes, it’s half-dry and he lets out the gentlest sob into Nick’s mouth. 

They lie there, spent, until Nick snorts out a laugh and fingers the material of the jacket, caught between them. 

"Good lord," he says. "Styles, I’ll never have a career in football with a come-stained jacket."

"Guess you’ll have to stay here then," Harry mumbles, half-asleep, and Nick grins up at the ceiling. 

"Guess so." 

It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to do it. 


End file.
